Roarke and the Tribunal
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: The very future of Fantasy Island is in limbo when Roarke faces a highly unusual council on the brink of a new millennium. Follows 'Emissary'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Here's the "even more unusual" story I promised…a lot sooner than I expected. Many, many thanks as always for the amazing and wonderful feedback I've been receiving. Enjoy!  
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§ § § -- December 31, 2000 / January 1, 2001

The Christmas-tree lights still twinkled softly in the dimly-lit study, where Roarke and Leslie sat at the tea table reflecting on the imminent passage of the second millennium. He looked at her, visited with a sudden thought, and said, "Did you make your farewell to the old year?"

"About an hour ago," Leslie said, "when that phone call came in." She grinned, still a little sheepish; they both well remembered how he had overheard her do it the first year she was on the island. "I felt like I had to say goodbye three times: once to the old year, once to the twentieth century, and once to the entire millennium."

Roarke chuckled. "Quite understandable. In light of that, you would think there would be parties, of the magnitude of last year's…even our own celebration was unusually low-key. I admit to surprise at its early conclusion."

"I think everybody's still worn out from last year," Leslie kidded. It occurred to her then to recall exactly what she had been doing this time a year ago, and her cheeks went pink, her gaze sliding away from Roarke's and her cheerful façade slipping. "I heard from Christian about that CD I sent him…it made him cry too."

Roarke regarded her with sympathy. Early in the month she had bought a holiday CD by the Carpenters, which contained a song called "Merry Christmas Darling" that expressed her current feelings exactly. She had picked up a second copy and sent it to Christian, telling him he needed to listen to that particular song and imagine her speaking to him when he did so. Roarke had heard the song enough times on the radio that he had to admit it was a perfect fit for Christian and Leslie's situation.

"Why don't you go to the kitchen and see if there is any of Mariki's spiced cider remaining," Roarke suggested gently. "We'll have one more cup and watch the new year come in, and then I think it's best we retire for the night."

"Okay," she said and reached out to set her empty mug on the table. Just then the grandfather clock began to chime midnight, and for some reason she went utterly, absolutely statuelike: even her breathing appeared to stop. Roarke stared at her in surprise and budding alarm before he realized that the clock had ceased striking as well, and the very air had gone still. He put his own mug on the table and stood up, alert and bewildered.

The entire room instantly disappeared around him, leaving him on a platform in some featureless black void with a spotlight shining down on him from directly overhead. It revealed a foggy mist swirling around the platform's base. As he stood there wading through his own rising tide of confusion, the blackness began to gradually turn a smoky gray, until he could make out shadowy, vaguely human forms in a rough semicircle before him.

"Roarke," said a voice, an oddly accented voice—and then he knew where he was, and dread filled him. He should have known he was going to face this moment! How could he have possibly forgotten? At the last thousand-year turn his own father had stood before a panel that had convinced him to step aside and train his only son in the intricate, powerful mental abilities that their clan had brought with them from some ancient, nameless place whose location had been lost to history in the very distant past. Now, Roarke realized, his dark eyes going wide with reaction, it was his own turn.

"Roarke," the voice said again. "Do you know why we have brought you here?"

"Yes," Roarke said heavily, studying each of the gathered shady forms in the vain hope of making out their features. "The millennial tribunal."

"Correct. You recall your father's words to you, then, one thousand years ago..." There was a pause, and Roarke had the feeling he was being assessed. "You seem startled, Roarke. Were you not warned?"

Roarke looked down, gathering himself, drawing in a breath. "Yes, I was…but you must understand that ten centuries is a great length of time, and much has happened in all those years. You will forgive me, I hope, if I admit that it slipped my mind."

To his surprise, he heard a few quiet chuckles. It didn't lessen his dread of what lay ahead of him, but it gave him some hope. Perhaps there would be room for compromise, at least—unless somehow he could defend his own case and prevent repeating history altogether. Unsure, however, he waited, while the voice took an audible breath and spoke again. "Very well…but there is no denying the fact that the millennium changes again, and there is much to be concerned about in this instance. Never have we seen such immense and all-encompassing change in this planet than during the century just elapsed."

"Indeed," Roarke commented tersely.

A second voice, female this time, took over. "We have been quite concerned about you, Roarke. Your circumstances are much different from your father's; and you have undergone your share of adversity and struggled through a number of difficulties, in the last two years especially. I feel compelled to advise you that your case will be complicated. Your life has taken a far different direction from your father's, and your situation calls for much discussion and examination. We will offer you what comforts you require so that you may be as prepared as possible to present your testimony."

Roarke looked around then and saw a leather chair behind him, not unlike those in his own office, with a small table beside it that held a pitcher of water and a glass. "Thank you," he said guardedly but politely, taking a seat but ignoring the pitcher for the moment. He waited quietly; they had brought him here, and it was up to them to explain how this was to proceed. In all honesty, he knew enough to know that he was going to be playing this entirely by ear: there was no script, no agenda. Whatever he said in his own defense would be off the cuff and straight from the heart. Not that it would be very hard to do that; he had strong reasons for remaining in his current position, and he intended to fight for it as he had fought for very little else in his long lifetime.

It was as if the unseen tribunal were reading his thoughts—or at least his expression, he thought ruefully, wondering when he had lost his poker face. "We are well aware that your position is unique, so you need not worry. We are willing to listen to your arguments; we are not totally unreasonable." It was the first voice, which had acquired a gently self-mocking tone. The chuckling welled up again; even Roarke smiled tensely.

"Very well, then," he said quietly, resettling himself in the chair for the maximum comfort: he had no doubt whatsoever that he was in for a siege. "I am ready."

"The main thrust of this tribunal inquiry is the question of stepping down…retiring, if you will," said the first voice. "Your allotted time has come to an end, and when you consider all that you have endured of late, you will surely agree."

"My father told me that the edict was presented to him as having earned a rest," said Roarke ironically. "Perhaps that was because he was already ill anyway, at the time he was summoned, and he was certainly ready. However, that's not the case here. For me to step aside would be decidedly premature. First and foremost, I'm not at all ready to do so; and even if I were, there is no one to take over the position. I have one child, and as yet she is not remotely prepared."

"Ah, yes, that Earth-human orphan girl you adopted," a new voice said. Like the first, it was male, but this one sounded distinctly sly to Roarke. "I've been waiting for that one, my good man. I don't know how you expect to be able to train her. She doesn't have the powers, can't hope to obtain them, and is a pitiful substitute for a blood relative. What's more, she might live a century…if she's very fortunate. These tribunals are draining and very difficult to convene, you know, and I for one have no wish to do this again until the year 3001. And I don't believe even you will be around by then, Roarke."

Roarke said, "Oh? And you expect to be?"

"He has you there," a fourth voice remarked, highly amused.

The sly one grumbled something, too low for Roarke to hear, then loudly cleared his throat. "In any case, that girl just isn't suitable. Why not train your cousin's son? He seems the most likely choice."

"He is my cousin's son, not mine," Roarke said flatly. "Leslie takes precedence, because she is sole heir to all I own. Besides, Rogan has no interest in taking over my job. He seems quite content to operate his greenhouse."

The sly one grunted, "Bah, plants. Must have been something his human mother imparted to him. Truly, Roarke, you have little choice. Don't tell me you are unable to sire your own offspring? It seems odd to me you never produced any."

"It takes two," Roarke pointed out dryly.

"That's not one of the issues on the table," the second voice said sharply to the sly one. "You go too far. And you sound rather too much like Roarke's cousin. Have you been taking tea with Mephistopheles on a regular basis, then?" There was laughter at that.

The first voice interjected, "Please, might we keep to the issue at hand? Roarke?"

Roarke aimed a wintry smile at his ghostly audience, letting it linger slightly longer in the direction from which the sly voice had been emanating, and said, "It's relevant to the discussion, insofar as the assorted vagaries and events of my life never allowed for the opportunity to, as you say, 'produce' my own children. It had never honestly occurred to me to do so, if truth be told. But Leslie's mother made her request of me, and I could hardly refuse. The child had no one else on earth to turn to. She came to me early enough in her life that we two had an unexpected effect on each other. She has apparently absorbed my own values, which she might not have done had her parents—or at least her birth father—lived to raise her to adulthood; and as for me, she grew on me, you might say. Her mother had enough influence on her that her soul was less damaged by Michael Hamilton's mistreatment than I might have expected. She merely needed some guidance and encouragement, and I was very pleasantly surprised to find myself raising a kindhearted and generous girl. She has grown into a lovely young woman, and I am proud to call her my daughter."

"But what of her merely-human state?" protested the fourth voice, yet another male. "You say she will inherit all you own one day. To begin with, you are likely to outlive her, not the other way around. More importantly, should she somehow actually inherit, how can you reasonably expect her to fill your shoes? She has no powers, no mental abilities at all. She can't be trained beyond a certain point. What sort of role can she possibly play in the business you've so painstakingly built up across the years? When she needs to perform a feat that only you can pull off, how is she going to do it? Smoke and mirrors?"

"There are ways," Roarke said knowingly. "I have even seen those ways employed. If and when I find it necessary, there will be no question of my utilizing one or another of them. Moreover, Leslie is a very intelligent young woman, eager and more than willing to learn. She has always been thoroughly fascinated by what I do; I could hardly ask for a better starting point than her level of enthusiasm. She has been my assistant for a bit more than ten years now, and has performed remarkably well."

The sly one broke in, "How would you know of ways to endow her with our powers?"

"Are you suggesting that you _don't_ know of those ways?" countered Roarke.

"Why don't you give up," said the second voice to the sly one. "He has a counterpoint for each brickbat you throw. Your bigotry is showing, so you might do well to cease and desist before you get yourself into a hole of illogic too deep to climb out of."

"If I may distill it to the essentials," Roarke said, "I categorically refuse to renounce Leslie merely because she is my _adopted_ daughter. She is my child in every way that truly matters, and I see no point in continuing to belabor the issue. You will not persuade me to change my stand, so perhaps we might consider the matter closed and move on."

The first voice said, "There are a few points that could be examined more closely, but I find them of minor import. You have presented a compelling argument on your daughter's behalf; so as you request, we will discuss the next issue."


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- January 1, 2001

"Which," a fifth voice, a female, spoke up, "is the question of your physical condition. You cannot deny that you have been through a great medical trauma, and from our viewpoint it appears to have affected your overall health on a permanent basis. And in spite of our longevity as compared with Earth humans, you have already lived out well over half of your expected lifespan. What say you to that?"

"We will all pass on at some point," said Roarke laconically.

When he offered nothing further, the fifth voice sighed. "Don't be flippant, Roarke. I remind you that you, like so many of our people before you, suffered from the bone-eating disease for a time, and nearly died from it. Putting aside the fact that you were cured, there is the issue of how you came down with the disease, as well as its lingering effects in the aftermath." His face must have betrayed his confusion at the final clause, for the voice added, "I see your blank look. We will return to that. Firstly, we must deal with your contraction of the disease. Please summarize for us, if you would, the situation that led to it."

_What, you don't already know?_ thought Roarke, surprised at his own slight sense of impatience. Carefully controlling all emotion, he spoke, his face as expressionless as his voice. "For those who may not have been aware, I was visited by Paola, who as you may or may not know was one of our people—though not of my clan. I was never certain exactly which clan she did belong to. However, this meant that she possessed at least some, if not all, of the powers I have, and in addition, she was mentally ill. I wanted only to help her if it were at all possible; but while she was not trained, she had somehow managed to learn something about use of the mental abilities, for she gained control over my mind. I had not known she was of our people before then, and her attack caught me utterly unprepared. I believed for a time that I was in love with her. Eventually, she overreached herself; she kidnapped Leslie with the intention of killing her, and in the meantime succeeded in transferring the bone-eating disease to me."

"In what way?" the sly one interrupted.

The second voice snapped, "One more of your irrelevant outbursts, and I will introduce a motion to remove you from this council! Roarke has already stated that under Paola's influence, he believed he loved her. And you know full well the methods of transmission of the disease. What, since you seem to have forgotten, is the eventual natural outgrowth of falling in love with someone?"

More laughter greeted that; even Roarke smiled faintly. At least one council member seemed to be squarely in his corner. Sullenly the sly one said, "Question withdrawn. You may continue, Roarke."

Roarke had used the interruption to pour a glassful of water and had taken a few sips to refresh himself. Setting the glass back on the table, he gathered his thoughts again. "As I said, she kidnapped Leslie, once she felt that she had me sufficiently under her control. But Paola took her to some remote part of my island, and in so doing was unable to maintain her mental control, as she was no longer in constant proximity. I gradually regained control and, with some assistance, was able to put a halt to Paola's activities before she caused any further damage. But then I…" There he stopped.

"…discovered you had the disease," said the fifth voice. "And, as we understand it, a particularly virulent form of it."

"Paola's condition was greatly advanced," said Roarke. "In fact, she was very close to dying of the disease herself. And I am certain you are all well aware that the stage of the disease at the time of transmission determines its severity in the one newly infected."

"Ah, yes, of course," said the fifth voice, as if reminded. "Thus it took far more of a physical toll on you."

"How could Paola have been close to death at the time she infected Roarke?" the second voice wanted to know. "She was ambulatory enough to wreak havoc with him and his daughter; yet when the disease took hold in Roarke, he remained bedridden throughout. How is this possible?"

"The vagaries of the bone-eating disease are still largely a mystery to us," the first voice explained, with a touch of regret. "Even in two persons at the same stage of its progress, it will have quite different symptoms. In Paola's case, she remained active till the very end of her life; in Roarke's, it almost completely debilitated him. The symptoms and effects are unpredictable in any given individual, although it has been observed that in families who have it, said symptoms and effects are grossly similar. But new knowledge is exceedingly difficult to obtain, and most of what we have learned has come from many centuries of observation. In the case of the cure, I can only surmise that it was a combination of persistence and blind luck." This sentence carried an arid tone that evoked a few quiet chuckles. "I trust that answers your question."

The second voice said, "Yes, that is satisfactory, thank you. Please continue."

The fifth voice said, "Thank you. Now, I wish to bring up the next point: your mental vulnerability to Paola. It seems a sign of weakness."

"I beg your indulgence, but I must disagree," Roarke parried spiritedly, wondering if this council member had really listened to what he'd just said. "I believe I said quite plainly that Paola was one of our people. That put us on an equal mental level. The only difference is that I was trained, and she was not." He hesitated, long enough for the sly one to pounce.

"What are you holding back from us, Roarke?" it demanded.

Feeling uncomfortably like a small boy sitting in the principal's office, Roarke glanced at the form that had seemed to be the source of the first voice. "Is it necessary to answer that?" he asked.

"If it's relevant to your argument, Roarke, then you may find it useful to do so," said the first voice, not unkindly. "It may even work to your advantage."

Roarke considered it for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. In my quest to help Paola with her mental problem—which she described as demons whose voices continuously tormented her—I made a journey through her mind, with her permission and assistance. I did in fact encounter the sounds of the voices she claimed to hear, but try as I might, I could not break her free from their hold on her. In looking back on that incident, I have come to the realization that while our minds were linked, she must have culled some sparse knowledge of my own trained abilities, which she put to use later on."

There was an uneasy rustling at this, but notably, the sly one said nothing. "I submit," the second voice ventured after a moment, "that whatever perceived 'mental weakness' Roarke may have exhibited was not of his making. Tell me, Roarke, does it appear to you in retrospect that all of Paola's damage to you was done after this mental sojourn?"

Again Roarke considered the question, then shook his head. "No, only the majority of it. From the moment she set foot on the island, I felt…strange. She must have immediately begun to exert her influence over me, although she did no actual damage otherwise until after we had linked minds."

"And you did that," the second voice prodded, "in an attempt to help cure her of her mental illness, these demons you say she claimed to be possessed by."

"Yes, that was my sole intention," Roarke said.

"All right," the fifth voice conceded with good grace. "We shall consider that matter closed. My next point is the illness itself. How long did it take you to contract it?"

"Approximately two weeks," Roarke told her. "I noticed symptoms within a few days of banishing Paola from my island, but I didn't realize what they were: as noted earlier, the disease acts differently in each individual it attacks. And I did not even have my father's experience to draw upon, since he contracted the disease differently from the way I did, and his was a gradual progression over a number of years while my own affliction was highly advanced and thus very rapid to take hold."

"How long before you were given the cure?" asked the fifth voice.

"From the time Leslie learned from Rogan what I had, it was fourteen days," said Roarke. "Is that relevant?"

"Only fourteen days?" the fourth voice spoke up unexpectedly. "You quite nearly died. All that kept you alive was the palliative tonic." Roarke simply sat in silence, seeing no need to respond to that; after all, it had been made clear how severe his case had been. After a moment the voice questioned, "How long did it take the cure to work, then?"

"Overnight," said Roarke.

"That may not mean anything," the first voice pointed out. "Like the disease, the cure may act differently in different individuals."

"If I may?" Roarke ventured, and when the first voice gave assent, he continued: "My daughter is engaged to a prince who is currently mired in an arranged marriage to the younger sister of Paola. She and her father, an Italian count, also had the disease; and when we obtained the cure, we shipped doses to the count and the young woman. Leslie was in touch with the prince, and was informed that for the woman, at least, the cure also took effect overnight. I did not hear how it acted for the count."

"That may help the research," the first voice said. "Thank you."

"I believe," the fifth voice said tightly, "that we are drifting away from the topic under question here. I don't know about you, but I should like to move along."

The first voice sighed with mild amusement. "You need not be so impatient, and in any case, I don't see the thrust of your current point. Why are you asking Roarke how long he had the disease and how long it took the cure to make him well?"

"There may be some significance in how quickly he came down with the illness," the fifth voice said, sounding a bit disconcerted. "And you yourself noted that his information on the cure might be beneficial to the ongoing research. Please, allow me to continue."

"Then by all means, do so," the first voice replied.

"You are the first, Roarke, to have ever survived the bone-eating disease," the fifth voice said. "No one has any way of knowing what the long-term effects may be of having had it, since all other victims have perished from it…"

Roarke sat up. "One moment," he said, frowning. "You had knowledge of the cure's existence: I never mentioned it before it came up in the course of this discussion. You must therefore have been fully aware that my cousin had found it. Why, pray tell, did you not take him to task for not immediately making the cure known to all of our people? How long had he possessed the knowledge and the formula before my daughter and his son finally got the recipe from him? It seems, as well, that he was running a business very similar to my own on a small island, but from what he told me, I inferred that he was coerced into it; he made it clear that he didn't enjoy it. In any case, I must ask you why he was never taken in hand. There are not many of our people remaining on this planet, and who knows how many of us died needlessly before my cousin gave up the secret?"

His anger seemed to truly surprise the council, and there was an uncomfortable silence. A sixth voice, heretofore silent, cleared its throat nervously. "Your cousin was a very secretive and private sort," it said. "However, other than his son, he was the only other living member of the Roarke clan, and we feared that with your time nearing its end, another was needed. So we set him up in a business identical to yours."

"He turned out to be a most ungrateful sort," the sly third voice remarked sourly. "He simply hated the job, and grumbled and complained every time he received new clients. He did perform admirably when called upon, but the operation was a botch almost from the start. The moment he decided to don attire to reflect his overall attitude, we saw that the entire venture was doomed. His assistants were less than willing and constantly trying to escape, and when he noticed their failed attempts, he brought down needlessly severe punishments upon them. His business failed spectacularly before we were forced to act—fortunately so, since we had no real idea what we should do about it."

"That is all that will be said on that subject," announced the first voice with finality. "Will that be enough to satisfy your curiosity, Roarke?"

Roarke looked askance at the shadowy form. "If there is to be no further discussion, then there is only one answer to that, is there not?" Amusement rippled around the half-dozen council members, and the fifth voice demanded attention again.

"Please, I currently hold the floor," it said impatiently. "As I was trying to say, Roarke, it has been nearly two years now since you contracted the illness and were cured of it, and so far you appear to be holding your own, mostly."

"Mostly?" echoed Roarke, frowning. "I don't understand."

The fifth voice gentled, saying kindly, "This is the point I said we would come back to. You are more easily irritated, more easily angered and fatigued, a little quicker to become frustrated when things do not go as smoothly as you strive for. When your daughter made her attempt at granting her friend a fantasy last summer, you were unusually angry with her and made it all too clear. You have become perceptibly less tolerant as well. Have you not noticed all this? Before the illness, this was not true, and I find myself concluding that this is a sign that your immune system has lost some of its strength."

Stunned, Roarke sat and stared in the direction of the fifth voice; no one spoke for a long, charged minute. "You find my recent emotional peculiarities to be a result of having been afflicted with the bone-eating disease?" he finally asked incredulously.

"I did mention that you become tired more quickly," the fifth voice pointed out.

Roarke let this sink in, turning this point over in his mind; the council waited in patient silence. At last he said quietly, "Should you require it, I will submit to a thorough physical examination, by whomever you choose. But I might present the fact that my cousin's son, Rogan, seems to have extensive knowledge of the disease, however he came by it; and he never once suggested that there would be long-term aftereffects in the wake of my being cured. He is the sort who, should he notice anything unusual, would not hesitate to bring it to my attention; and he has never done any such thing."

"Has Rogan knowledge of the long-term effects of survival, then?" the third voice asked sardonically. "Either that, or he simply doesn't see you often enough to notice anything out of place. I wouldn't put much credence in his opinions."

"Perhaps we should obtain his daughter's testimony," said the fifth voice. "She sees him every day, and I have no doubt she would enumerate the various instances of Roarke's weariness and shortened temper."

Roarke said, "Let me be certain I understand this. Because I occasionally grow weary, and because I took exception to my daughter's taking it upon herself to grant a fantasy without consulting me, you attribute this to a weakening in my immune system and therefore justification for removing me from my job, my residence and my very life."

"You leap to absurd conclusions, Roarke," the fifth voice said sternly.

"What else can I do when I am presented with such arguments?" he asked. "As I told you, I will be more than happy to undergo a complete physical examination. If you are unwilling, unable or unprepared to administer it—"

The second voice interceded again. "Forgive me, Roarke…but if I may ask, exactly how many such instances of weariness and irritability have there been since he was cured of the disease?"

Sensing the question was not directed at him, Roarke remained silent; when the fifth voice replied, it sounded reluctant. "Five in all."

"Over two years," said the second voice. "Frankly, I don't see that as abnormal. We all have moments of unusual fatigue and short temper. Why should Roarke be any different? Are you so unwilling to give him some leeway?"

The first voice said, "I believe that will be sufficient debate on this topic. Five cases of temporary exhaustion or irascibility in two years do not make enough of a case against him to hold up…and he has stated twice that he will gladly undergo examination. I see no reason to belabor the subject; so let us move to the next issue: the state of this planet."


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- January 1, 2001

The second voice took over for this one. "Roarke, I must say that so far I find your defense admirable. But it seems to me this is a problem you must make concession to. Your history will tell you that when our people arrived here millennia back, we found a beautiful, unspoiled world whose people revered it and took care of it. However, as the technological capabilities of humans have advanced, so too has their gradual destruction of the planet. In the last two centuries especially, their plundering and exploitation of earth has escalated to such an alarming degree that there seems no hope even of slowing it, much less halting it. Do you truly wish to continue on in the face of this?"

"If I agree to step down as a result of your mere announcement that my time is up and that this planet's ongoing suffering is sufficient reason to accept that announcement, then it would be tantamount to giving up," Roarke said.

"But it's overwhelming," the second voice protested fervently. "Not only is the human race slowly laying waste to its homeworld, it also seems bent on laying waste to itself. In all our observations, we have noted that no supernatural power now in existence seems to be able to halt humanity's determined attempts to destroy itself and the world it calls home."

Roarke offered with a flash of whimsy, "Perhaps you should take up the issue with Mother Nature. Have you not seen the increasingly severe and abnormal weather patterns over the last two or three decades?"

"Flippancy has no place here, Roarke," growled the third voice.

"What flippancy?" Roarke asked, the picture of innocence. "I spoke with Mother Nature several years ago, and she herself told me of her frustrations."

Someone actually giggled, and there was audible shifting of positions, a few muffled "ahems" and some indecipherable mumbling. Roarke noticed the shadowy figures swaying slightly in time with all this, and carefully repressed a smile. "Very well, Roarke," said the second voice, with a barely perceptible loss of patience. "But surely, with the world and its inhabitants in this dismal state, you must wonder if your work is all in vain."

"To the contrary," Roarke said. "With so much unhappiness in the world, the need for Fantasy Island is greater than ever. Humans need the chance to escape, to find some joy and lightheartedness in what is too often a difficult and trying existence. Where else can they go in order to gain that?"

"Another point taken," the first voice remarked, sounding simultaneously resigned and impressed. "Who has the next issue on the agenda?"

Roarke relaxed in the chair, surprised that he had won this round so handily. He lifted the water glass and drained a healthy percentage of its remaining contents, in an attempt to fortify himself for the debate that still faced him.

The sixth voice spoke now: "The point I raise is connected nominally to Roarke's lack of blood offspring. There have been a number of women over the centuries with whom you seemed very happy, very much in love. Has it not occurred to you that you could see them again upon stepping down? This, incidentally, includes your parents, and all those relatives whom you have seen pass out of earthly existence in your time there."

Roarke tensed in the chair. "If I remain on earth, will I lose the chance to see them again when I do finally decide my time should come to an end?" he asked.

"There is no need for sarcasm," the sixth voice admonished, though gently, as if it knew this was something of a sensitive issue with him. "Surely you deserve that happiness, which we note you have denied yourself on several occasions in the last two or three centuries especially. There was a dancer, was there not, whose memory of her love for you you deliberately erased in order that she have her life's dream?"

Roarke remembered her well; curiously, the lady had shared his goddaughter's name, and they had known a brief but intense love. "That," he said, "is a situation that cannot be changed; and I point out that even if it could, she still lives. Stepping aside would not allow me to be with her."

"Then what of these women?" the sixth voice said, and out of the smoky mist that obscured the council members stepped a completely unexpected apparition. Roarke stared in wide-eyed silence as the beautiful woman, with long unbound black hair, dusky skin and soft, expressive eyes hesitated in front of him. Even after many centuries, he could still remember her name: she had been the first woman he'd ever fallen in love with. "Tecalca," he murmured. She had been the daughter of the chief of a small Mayan tribe that lived on the tip of what was now the Yucatán peninsula. How young had he been? Unwittingly he smiled reminiscently. His parents had still been alive; his father had been robust and vital, the well-liked leader of the Roarke clan, and his mother the generous woman who had gently encouraged her son and this sweet-faced chieftain's daughter to mate for life and raise a family together. The girl before him returned his smile in full, encouraged to move closer to him, and took his hand hesitantly in hers. Only then was Roarke startled back to reality: her hand was so cold it almost burned him, and instinctively he drew back.

"This was your first love, was it not?" the sixth voice prompted. "What happened that you did not fulfill the promise of your love with her?"

"She drowned in a hurricane," Roarke said, closing his eyes briefly. The pain of the memory had dulled and faded over time, but it always evoked a gentle sorrow in him for the agonizing way she must have died. When he opened his eyes again, Tecalca was gone. "My love for her was that of a callow youth."

"Yet you did love her," the sixth voice said. It waited till Roarke nodded a couple of times before saying, "And then there was this lady." This time the form that materialized from the mist was of a reed-slim girl, not yet two decades old, with short black hair and pale skin. But she had fierce, determined eyes, which now brightened as they met Roarke's. He had to smile. Leslie would never believe that for just a few short weeks, he had been in love with… "Joan of Arc," the sixth voice concluded.

Roarke allowed himself to smile briefly at her, long enough to see her return it and nod her head just once, before saying, "We both knew it was only temporary. She had her mission, and I knew even then that there was no future for her in those brutal days. She would not be dissuaded, and I had no choice but to move on." His attention had shifted to the shady form that seemed to own the voice; when he looked again, the famous warrior girl was gone, just as Tecalca had vanished.

"You wandered a great deal, Roarke, did you not?" remarked the sixth voice with some amusement. "First the Mayan chieftain's child; then the young French warrior. And now this Hungarian countess…" From the mist emerged a lovely red-haired woman with a calculating look in her eyes; when she saw Roarke, she lit up with astonishment.

"Elizabeth," Roarke murmured, and couldn't quite suppress a shiver. Elizabeth Bathorý had been a diversion he'd been unable to resist for just a little while. By the time he had met her, she had been widowed and already sinking fast into her obsession with black magic and retaining her extraordinary beauty. For that short enchanted time, he'd thought he could save her from herself; but her obsessions had overcome her love for him, and he found himself unable to tolerate them long enough to really help her. She had ultimately driven him away to pursue them.

"Do you consider that interlude a mistake?" the sixth voice queried.

"Not a mistake," Roarke said, picking his way through his words, trying to find the right ones to express what he meant. "Only a failed attempt to help…" He shook his head hard once, and when he looked up, Elizabeth too had disappeared.

"Then perhaps this will persuade you," the sixth voice said, low and deliberate, and that was when Helena Marsh approached him from the mist, still bright-eyed and vibrant, still with that wide, ready smile. Caught unprepared, Roarke lurched forward in the chair and half arose, eyes fixed on her. The pain of her death was still too recent and too fresh, and the sight of her here, now, was almost too much for him. He could feel the council's close scrutiny as he helplessly stretched out his hand toward her.

Helena looked up at him and, unlike the others, reached instantly out to grasp his hand in both of hers; she felt warm, _alive._ "Helena," he breathed.

Also unlike the others, she spoke, though only in a whisper. "No, my darling," she said. "You aren't finished yet…"

He knew she was right. His heart struggled to talk him out of it, to accept the verdict and let her lead him to some other plane where they'd have all the time that ever existed…but she was right, and he couldn't deny that. His work wasn't finished…and Leslie wasn't ready. He couldn't desert Fantasy Island and all those who depended on him, many for their very lives. Too much rested on his shoulders. He braced himself, trying to prepare his heart for this newest loss. Then Helena said, "Are the children all right?"

Roarke nodded, a film of tears misting her image and making it waver. "Both of them are thriving," he assured her.

She smiled brightly, looking delighted. "That's all I need to know. I can wait for you, my darling, knowing what I know now." She squeezed his hand. "Do what you must." She released him then and stepped back; Roarke drew in a slow, deep breath, pulling together every last atom of his will to do what needed doing.

"We weren't meant to be," he said, his voice just a little shaky. "She died before her time, but if it had been the right thing at the right moment…"

The sixth voice sounded shocked. "This was the greatest love of your life, Roarke, yet you give her up that easily?"

"No," Roarke said, his battle for control making his voice sharper than he'd intended. He forced calm into his tone. "It's not easy—it is _never_ easy, least of all now. But it's what I must do. I am not yet finished." He focused deliberately on the form that owned the sixth voice, knowing that Helena would be gone when he looked back…and sure enough, she was. He picked up the glass and took a long draft.

The council was deadly silent for some time, perhaps to let him regroup. Then the second voice said, "Perhaps bringing Helena Marsh into the equation was too cruel."

"It was a test," the first voice said, not without compassion. "There is no mistaking the pain Roarke suffered at sacrificing her and their love, but sacrifice them he did. This matter is closed…and I myself raise the final question."


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- January 1, 2001

Roarke set the glass aside and focused on the indistinct shadow. "Very well."

"Tell us, Roarke, why do you so stubbornly resist admitting that your time has reached its end? Your father willingly surrendered. But there is little doubt that you have certain very compelling reasons for wishing to remain. What are they?"

"First," Roarke said, "I must beg to differ with you: my father surrendered, but not willingly. It greatly saddened him to step aside, and it was my very strong impression that if it had not been for the fact that he had a fairly well-advanced case of the bone-eating disease, he never would have done so, and quite possibly would have argued for remaining, exactly as I am now doing." The council's surprise was so strong as to be palpable, and he took advantage of it to explain further. "As I have already mentioned, who would replace me? Leslie is not ready by far; and even if Rogan were so inclined, he too would not be prepared. About twenty years ago, at a time when I wasn't sure I would survive a confrontation with Mephistopheles, I wrote out detailed instructions for Tattoo, my assistant at the time, to be put into use only should I not return. I still have those instructions, which I hold for Leslie against the direst possible occurrence.

"However, they are emergency preparations only, and cover only the most important functions. I have much yet to teach her. The point was raised earlier in regard to her lack of the powers, and while I appreciate its validity, I also have a contingency in mind for that. In any case, I would find myself at loose ends should I step down. Fantasy Island gives me a purpose: but there is far more to it than having a reason to exist. The place and its memories mean far more to me than I have time or vocabulary to describe here. It is _home_, in a way no other place I have ever lived has been home.

"And even if all of this were not a factor, what about my daughter? I am advised that of the entire Roarke clan, which once numbered in the dozens, there now remain only Rogan and me…and, I might add, Rogan's young son Rory. Yes, they are blood relatives…but Leslie is my family, and the only family I have. She is as alone as I. Should I step down and seem to disappear from the face of the earth, where would that leave her? She has fewer blood relations than I. Each of us is all the other has, at least until such time as her prince is released from his imposed marital obligation and can join her at last. In the meantime, we depend on each other. I can't simply desert her now—it would be needlessly cruel.

"In short, the world needs Fantasy Island; I need Fantasy Island and my daughter; my daughter needs me. I believe that summarizes everything."

Silence fell once again, a contemplative and somewhat overwhelmed one, and Roarke very gradually relaxed in the chair, quietly reminding himself that he had said everything he could say. Now his fate rested in their hands.

The second voice was the first to speak. "I cannot find fault with his arguments; they are compelling and sound, and stand up to whatever we throw at them."

"You speak for me as well," said the sixth voice, and the fourth and fifth ones echoed this, not necessarily gladly, but with definite respect.

The third voice heaved an audible breath and grumbled, "As much as I wish I could dissent, I too must admit to being impressed. I concur."

The first voice seemed to have a smile in it. "Perhaps you are correct, Roarke, and your time hasn't yet come to an end after all. In the assorted tribunals we and others have conducted, I don't believe there has ever yet been a more compelling debate or a more impassioned defense. You may return, Roarke, with our blessings."

Roarke smiled broadly, but before he could extend his thanks, the fourth voice said, "I must say, I am very much impressed with that island and the way you run it. Setting yourself up as a sovereign territory was an inspired idea—a haven for the world's most brutally persecuted souls, a refuge for vulnerable flora and fauna, and most of all, a place for Earth humans to actually live out their most cherished fantasies. I commend you."

Roarke's smile became an impish grin. "Well, I really can't take all the credit for it; the idea was presented to me. But my benefactors remain anonymous." The council began to laugh…

…and quite out of nowhere, he stood in his study again, in the same spot he'd been when he originally noticed that time had stopped. Everything remained exactly as he had left it, including Leslie in her strange snapshot pose, in the act of setting her cup on the table. Realizing he had been sitting when she had last moved, he took his seat.

The stillness of the air eased; the grandfather clock resumed striking the midnight hour; and Leslie finished her movement, putting the mug on the table and getting to her feet. Roarke watched her, stricken abruptly with the icy realization of how very close he had come to losing all this, and stood up once more, stepping in front of her before she could get to the steps and enfolding her into a hard hug that shook just slightly.

She noticed. "Father, is something wrong? Are you okay?"

He knew he was suffering from a sort of withdrawal, from the drained-adrenaline feeling of having survived a close call, and found himself too weary and shaken to explain to her. "Please, my child, just indulge me," he requested softly.

"Of course, Father, anything," she agreed readily. She sounded bewildered, but he knew she would accept it, as she had accepted so much else that she couldn't understand, as just another caprice of his livelihood and his abilities. He closed his eyes and smiled with the relief that finally sheeted over him when she wrapped her arms around him and held on, just as securely as he clung to her.

Roarke and Leslie stood that way till long after the clock had rung out the twelfth chime, till his barely-perceptible shaking had eased and he dared let himself believe he had truly won an indefinite reprieve. Then, and only then, did he ease back from her. "Perhaps," he said, "it would be best to retire now, if that's all right with you. Why don't you go on ahead, Leslie, and I'll set things to rights here before I go up."

Leslie studied him, vestiges of confusion and curiosity in her eyes, then nodded quiet assent. "I guess it's as well," she said and grinned. "I thought I'd save some of that cider for breakfast anyway, and if I get another cup now I may finish it off."

Roarke chuckled with her. "All right then…good night."

"Good night, Father," she said and went upstairs. He watched her go, then gathered up the cups and took them to the kitchen before returning to the study. About to close the shutters, he was quite startled when Rogan Callaghan burst onto the terrace and skidded to a breathless halt just inside the room.

"I've got it, uncle," he gasped and nodded vigorously at Roarke's wide-eyed stare. "I've finally got it, after all this time!"  
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_What's behind Rogan's "eureka" moment? Cliffhanger to be resolved next time…_


End file.
